


I've Got a Groupon to Paradise

by thegoodthebadandthenerdy



Category: King Falls AM (Podcast)
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Double date!, F/M, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Married Life, One Big Happy Family, Prompt Fill, Slice of Life, also jack and sammy are married bc they deserve tht god...., bc theyre happy and theyre a family! you heard me!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 16:11:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17790581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegoodthebadandthenerdy/pseuds/thegoodthebadandthenerdy
Summary: rosejutsu asked: double dateMemories old and new, from Shania karaoke to farmer's market feuding, all rehashed and remade over the everchanging view of Saturday night dinner.





	I've Got a Groupon to Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> okay so this is not only my first kfam fic but its ALSO smthn i blitzed through writing the last 3/4s and editing in the past,,,, twenty-ish hours? but idc bc this tag needs some mindless happiness gkdjfsk

Sammy slips his arms around Jack's middle, resting his forehead against the notches of his spine and inhaling the scent of their offbrand fabric softener from the threads of his t-shirt. 

Jack laughs, a soft, almost silent thing, as he rests his right hand over Sammy's clasped ones, steady scribbling on their grocery list with his left. "What's up?"

"Are we doing anything Saturday?"

Jack rests his pen down beside the legal pad, the side of his hand smudging the orange juice with the milk. "Not off the top of my head. I figured we could hit the Walmart in Big Pine, though, make a night out of it."

"And they say romance is dead," Sammy deadpans, but Jack can feel the quirk of a smile against his back. 

"I thought that was chivalry?"

"You suggest we go grocery shopping on a Saturday night, but I know you won't volunteer to drive, so I'd say chivalry is still pretty fucking dead."

Jack gives a delighted sound, but doesn't argue. They both know Sammy is more than right. Instead, he sighs, length edging on dramatic, and spins around in Sammy's loose grip. "What were you thinking then, hotshot?"

"Also Big Pine. There's a newer restaurant- not uptight, I've heard the food's good…." he trails, letting thought plant and grow between them.

Jack's hands snake up to cup the sides of Sammy's face, a small smile curling across his mouth as his thumb brushes at the edge of his newly-minted husband's lips. "You trying to ask me out on a date?"

Sammy rolls his eyes, but he tilts his head to the side, barely noticable, and Jack leans against him, into him. "Yeah, of course," he murmurs, lips brushing against Sammy's hairline.

"Good- I'll text Emily later," he replies breezily.

Jack doesn't freeze, per se, but his eyes kind of squint against his view, lips pulling curiously, and he asks, "For what?"

"To see when she and Ben are free-"

"Hold on, hold on," Jack says, his pinched mouth spreading into something mischievous. "Sammy Stevens-"

"Wright-Stevens," he corrects without thinking.

"Is proposing a double date. Yes or no, is this part of a bet that you lost?"

Sammy shoves lightly against his shoulder, his head tipping back to take in all of Jack's confused expression. "You're such an asshole- no, it's not. I'm not a betting man."

"I know, which is why I'm trying to figure out your motive here. Did they reboot Punk'd, do I finally get to meet Ashton Kutcher?"

"For fuck's sa- do you want the truth?" 

"And nothing but," he replies, idly sliding his fingers through Sammy's slipped with gray hair as he eyes him intently. 

"I have a Groupon, okay? I'm an old man with a Groupon that I physically am incapable of letting expire, but you need four people." His chuckle aims for sardonic, but falls straight into truth. "Are you happy now?"

The moment Jack opens his mouth to laugh, he knows he won't stop for a long time. The freckles under his eyes disappear into the wrinkles of skin that appear from how hard they're scrunched up. He can feel Sammy press his thumb into the dimple at the bottom of his cheek, an old habit that Jack still loves, still leans into.

Outside looking in a cackling Jack Wright-Stevens is a sight to behold. Hair, usually gelled, is washed and shaking with its natural waves. Hands, pocked with dark freckles, are threaded through his husband's hair and tenderly cradling the side of his face respectively. Chest, clad in a shirt that might be his and might not, shaking with a tapering, breathy delight. 

Sammy loves him. Sammy has always loved him, but it's moments like these he thinks he was made for loving him.

"I love you," Jack sputters out, jewel-toned irises finally coming back into focus. Then, "But I can't believe I married the cheapest man alive."

°°°°°

< Are you and Ben free Saturday for dinner? There's a new restaurant in Big Pine.

> Yes :-)  
> I didn't realize Jack was out of town, when's he coming back?

< He's not out of town?

> Oh.  
> You usually only ask Ben and I out for dinner if Jack's not home so I just figured  
> But we're still happy to come!!  
> Never thought I'd see you on a double date, though, did you lose a bet, or?

< Not you too Emily

> ;~)

°°°°°

"I didn't even know either of us owned button ups that weren't Hawaiian shirts from Goodwill."

Sammy shakes his sleeves down, fingers fumbling at the clear buttons at the wrist. "Your cousin's wedding, I think? Yours has a wine stain on-"

"The tail from when the maid of honor got smashed and tried to get me to do Shania karaoke with her, right!" He sounds absolutely gleeful, but Sammy had had to hear him complain about that for a week. "God, that was such a terrible wedding."

"Hey, that was the first time I ever saw you in a suit. It was a great night for me."

"You fell in love with me on the spot, huh?"

"Already was, but hey, it was a good reminder. I remember listening to you complain while you heaved over the toilet bowl-"

"A drunk woman that had hated me since we were in middle school spilled red wine down my back while fucking up the words to You're Still the One! I deserved the grumbling."

" _And I remember thinking_ 'I don't know how, but I'm going to marry him one day.'"

"Oh my god, while I was spite puking?"

" _Yes_ ," Sammy laughs, holding his wrist out as Jack comes up to him wordlessly, undoing the buttons at his wrist and rolling it up his forearm. Once he's done, Sammy runs an idle finger over his husband's tattooed forearm.

"The bar is _so_ low here, and I'm not sure what it says about me."

Clapping him on the shoulder, Sammy says, "It says we're going to be late."

°°°°°

"Dude," Ben says when they lock eyes. "How are you still late to the thing you planned-"

"By like, a minute at most," Jack shoots back, roguish grin on his mouth. It's always disarmed Ben, hell, Sammy too. Emily's about the only one that doesn't go a little moony over it, but Sammy's sure her resolve will crack one of these days.

Ben tries, "Mm, closer to twenty- I'm sure you can get senior citizen discounts at the Eye Hut for some glasses, grampa," but even that falls a little flat, masked by that small smile he gets. It's his 'I'm-so-happy-my-best-friends-are-happy' smile. Sammy rolls his eyes, but he's got one of those too, and it's never far behind Ben's.

"I think I could pull of glasses," Jack says as he holds the door for Ben, the shorter ducking under his arm to pool in the restaurant's midway reception area. "Maybe I'll up the hipster ante in my marriage and get those half-rimmed ones."

Unsurprisingly, it's Emily who stokes the fire in her deceivingly mild voice. "You could always go for the big, round ones. You'd be ahead of the curve; extra hipster."

It's always comments like these, the unsuspecting, seemingly otherside of inflammatory things, that get them going.

The hostess has to awkwardly clear her throat to break up their intra-group debate about the hipster value of tortoiseshell - a decided 6.5 on the scale, they all abruptly agree - but they still make it to their table just fine. They aren't necessarily in the middle of the restaurant, but they aren't on the outskirts either.

The light above their table casts a nice glow, the chairs don't protest when they sit on them, and the tablecloth isn't see through, suspiciously stained, or otherwise questionable in its current position. The place is nice.

Their waiter doesn't recognize any of their faces or voices, the glasses aren't even the slightest bit sticky, and the menu is printed in an actual, legible font, in a color that isn't personally offensive to corneas everywhere. The place is really, really nice.

Emily is directly beneath the A/C vent, but even that can't detract from it. Sammy passes over his jacket, and she rests it over her shoulders like an unaffected heiress hiding from the paparazzi. The place is- out of their league, and they're already drunk on it.

Naturally, they only make it forty-five minutes.

The first of their flies to drop is Ben, when he upends a water glass on the table behind them. Granted, they're a shitty table that keeps trash-talking their waitress - both to her face and behind her back, somehow the former is worse than the latter. He uses that Ben Arnold Charm, patent pending, to smooth things out, bumbling and babbling like it's his job.

Still, all four of them are added into the rotation of shit talk, five if you count Sammy's bun as a seperate entity, but it's worth it. Sammy and Ben kind of get paid to have shit spoken to them at this point anyway, and Emily and Jack pretty much have blinders on to it at this point.

Sammy - never one to be left out in Ben's moments, even subconsciously - lights the end of his menu on fire about five minutes later. After they get it out - Jack swatting at it, cursing at full volume, Ben cursing, only slightly less loud, because he didn't have any water to dump on it - Sammy argues that unlaminated, thick cardstock and an open flame at a restaurant that stocks booze like it's a speak-easy at the height of the prohibition is the definition of a bad idea.

Emily requests a children's menu to replace his singed one. He drops one of the crayons in her drink while making direct eye contact.

They thought that was that, prayed it was because they'd only been seated for twenty minutes, and then that poor waitress dropped a whole platter's worth of food down Emily's back.

Luckily, Sammy's one good jacket took every bit of it. 

"Ma'am, I'm so- so sorry," the waitress sputters, her hands flying around her ponytail taught face lacquered with employee handbook mandated makeup. "Oh my god, let me help you," she insists.

"It's okay- hey, it's okay," Emily placates, gently rolling the jacket from her shoulders. "See? All good, don't even worry about it."

"I'll pay the dry cleaning bill, seriously," she continues, having only slightly deflated at Emily's placations. "It's the least I can do."

"Oh, that won't be necessary, I've been trying to get him to replace this jacket since he bought it - at the turn of the _nineteenth_ century," she adds pointedly, shooting a cat with a canary smile at Sammy.

"Jabs aside," Sammy interjects, droll stare swapping for something kinder when he turns to the buzzy waitress. "It's not an issue."

They finally compromise on her retrieving a bag for them to tie it up in, and from there they try to resume any semblance of the dinner they'd thought they'd be having.

But they're only three for four, and if they are anything, they're a group that must always bat a thousand, no matter what that means.

Sammy notices it first in the way that Jack's shoulders bunch up. It's a slight movement, nearly microscopic, but he still notices it. He shifts, letting his foot tap against his husband's under the table. Jack shoots him a quelling look, but his eyes are ducked. It's- Sammy frowns into his appetizer.

Emily's trying to entice Sammy into conversation about the latest episode of a show they both watch - one that he hates to admit that he loves and Jack teases him relentlessly about despite being on the couch every week at eight o'clock prime to watch it with him - but he's too focused on looking like he isn't focused. It, unsurprisingly, doesn't work.

Before he can ask him if he wants to be excuse himself and go out with him for some fresh air, Jack slips down in his chair like he's trying to remove his shirt through friction and sheer force of will.

Emily's eyes scrunch shut as she tries to hold her laugh back, but Sammy can hear it kicking around in her cheeks nonetheless. And when she laughs, Ben laughs. 

"Okay, so," Jack starts, his voice low and steady. "Don't look now, but uh, you know that guy I have beef with at the farmer's market? - I said don't look, Benjamin! - he just walked in with a party of five and I think it's time we hit the ground running because his granny scares the shit out of me."

"Wait- John G. or John C.?"

"You told me you don't go to the farmer's market because you're allergic to the pollen-"

"Mm, really not the time, Benny."

"John B."

"Jack in the Box Jesus we need to go."

"They're being seated backs to the door, should be a straight shot," Emily informs them, pushing her glasses - thin gold frames, eyes squared off and slightly cat-eyed, easily a 7 hipster value - back into her hair to rub at her eyes. Except not really. By the dip of her chin, she's searching. "The walkway's clear, let's go."

She stands abruptly, snatching up the crinkling back with Sammy's ruined suit jacked and plopping her glasses back down on the bridge of her nose. She walks with purpose, straight for the door, never hazarding a glance over her shoulder. All three of them can't help but admire her style.

Sammy and Jack because she's prepared to take them on their word, no questions asked, Ben because he admires everything she does with painstaking sincerity.

Sammy takes off after her, Ben close behind, and Jack trying his best to look like he's not running, when really his calves are aching for a sprint.

He spins past the hostess stand, shoving a bill no one had seen him take from his wallet into the unsuspecting, startled hands of their waitress, before slamming out into the reception area, and again into the cool night air.

"Go, go, go," he chants, hand shaking in the air, waving their party onward to the back corner where they're parked side by side. 

"Did they see us?" Ben calls, and there's something in his voice that makes Jack walk faster because it sounds halfway to righteous, and he'd rather not deal with the Big Pine PD because he soup-jacketed some rusted out Chevy pick-up with three 'Support Small Businesses' stickers.

"Just run!" Jack calls back, and suddenly they are a wild band, a pack roaming on thunderous feet and musical breath. The parking lot is already alight with mandated lampposts high above them, but it catches fire as Sammy looses this joyous, carefree laugh. 

The night reminds him of college, reminds him of meeting Jack and falling a little in love with him the first time they knocked elbows in their unassigned assigned seats. It's that kind of rush where you don't know what happens next, but you know whatever it is will be magnificent.

They finally slow as their vehicles come into view, and Jack slings an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into his heaving side. Normally, Sammy would protest against the use of their height difference, push off his side and crack whatever switch-sharp joke he can think of. But he's had a glass of wine, the night should be pleasant but he's not wearing a jacket, and Jack's side is warm and real and there. He sinks.

Up ahead of them, Emily tosses Ben her keys with a precision no one should have after even a drop of alcohol, before knocking her hand on the hood of the car to call their attention. "You two lovebirds want to hit Rose's? Benny's paying."

Ben snorts as he unlocks the car doors to let Emily unburden herself from the bag she's still carrying. He turns an expectant look on them, eyebrows up in congruence with his girlfriend's question. 

"Well if _Benny's_ paying," Jack hedges, a teasing slope to his lips.

"Oh, dude, I've told you you aren't allowed to call me that, makes me feel all-" his face screws up, as if that's an adequate end to his sentence.

"Is flustered the word you're looking for? I think it is," Sammy shoots back, temple leaned against the curve of Jack's shoulder, smile free and tipsy all on its own. This is a game they have, stemmed from the night he and Emily had helped them move in to their new apartment. 

"I said that _once_!"

Somewhere around his third beer, Ben had unearthed a college photo of Jack, and had lightly told Sammy 'dude, I already got it, 'cause you're my best friends and you two are perfect for each other, but like, I _get it_ now.'

Sammy had laughed, already infinitely amused, asked 'oh?' and Ben had delivered the line to end all lines, the one they were all going to be teasing him about until they were old and gray. 'Yeah, man, if I'd met him first day of college my bi awakening would've happened like, so many semesters earlier.' He'd then gone on to wax poetic about how they would've been such good friends in college - Ben was, as they all knew, a very profusely loving and wordy drunk. If there was somewhere he could sit and talk about how much he loved his friends or loved his girlfriend, he was there.

"Well," Emily hedges from the passenger side of her respectable four door. Her lips are pursed to hold her laugh in. "It was many, many times in one night, honey."

Ben's eyes twinkle with repressed laughter as he says, "I hate all of you, _all of you_." 

"But not me; right, Benny?" Jack asks, innocence dripping off his tongue. Sammy finally starts laughing, soft at first, there's a build up to make after all.

" _Especially_ you, dude! I was drunk off my ass!"

"Is it not true, then?" Jack almost looks _hurt_. Sammy makes an odd half-laughing _noise_ at the back of his throat that sounds like a whirring garbage disposal, it's loud enough that it has Jack patting his back absently. 

"Of course it is! Have you seen yourself?"

It's at this point that Emily smacks the top of the car again, her laughter pinching off into a near whistle.

"Okay," she gets out, one hand calmingly flat over her collarbones. "As fun as it is teasing Ben about his lack of filter when it comes to the looks of his best friend's - smoking, Ben, I'll say it for you - husband, I haven't eaten since lunch- Rose's, yes or no?"

"Please," Ben presses to no one in particular, throwing his hands up to catch stars.

Jack slips his hand down Sammy's side, patting his hip idly before he nabs the Prius keys from his wallet. "We'll follow?"

They all say their delayed goodbyes, or perhaps early hellos, and pile into their respective vehicles, the so-called DDs saluting one another before Ben backs out of the parking space. 

Even though the Prius is cranked, they're still parked. Jack turns to Sammy with an oddly serious look, eyebrows pulled inward. He'd be devastating if he wasn't such a fucking dork. 

"I know," Sammy starts, trying to find a new end to an old joke. "If you ever left me and moved to a retirement village in Miami, you'd sweep Ben off his feet to be your rebound."

"That's true," he replies off-handedly, "But no, I just wanted to make sure that you really see what sacrifice I'm making here for you." He pats the steering wheel soundly, and Sammy snorts.

"You're _such_ an ass, Jack Wright."

"Wright-Stevens, thank you very much."

When they kiss, Sammy can feel Jack's wedding band, cold and grounding as can be, against his cheek. 

°°°°°

It's well past midnight when they burst through the diner's doors, but they're greeted by name by a familiar waitress. She dumps them all in a booth in the far corner, Sammy pressed against the cold-to-the-touch window, Emily across from him, Jack leaned against his side like they're teenagers. Ben excuses himself before they even make it to the table, taking the perpetual trail of wet floor signs like an obstacle course on hid way to the bathroom.

The light above their table buzzes like tinnitus, their elbows stick to the table if they aren't careful, and the plastic cups deposited in front of them are cracked up the sides. But it's comfortable.

The radio is playing a station made mostly of static, the chef can be heard having a loud, Chet-like personal conversation with his sous, and the menus- _they_ should be burned. 

"Okay," Ben says as he slips back into the booth. "You know how the bathroom and the kitchen share a wall and you can hear _everything_."

"Unfortunately," one or all of them chime.

"Obviously it's none of my business, but like- you guys have to hear this."

It's not fancy or even _nice_. There's no swank or curb appeal, and it isn't Groupon eligible.

But it's home. And that's more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> happy valentines folks ben and emily said bi rights!
> 
> im on tumblr @wlwshehulk !!


End file.
